CREATIVE COLLECTIONS
Original Music, Songwriting and Prose

The Catskills were breathtaking at this time of year. He stood atop the hill, leaning against a massive oak tree, gratefully accepting what shelter it offered against the passing storm. From beneath his hood, he looked out across the valley he had so grown to love these past 50 odd years. His old Scottish Mac challenged the rain, keeping him warm and dry. It seemed like just yesterday he had come to this place, penniless, armed with only hope and a dream.

Blood, flames, prayer and profanity filled the cockpit. If there were no atheists in foxholes, surely there were none in burning fighter aircraft. The Spitfires’s first pass had blown holes through the Junkers crankcase, now uncontrollably bleeding out what remained of its life-sustaining lubrication...